Dinner with a Vampire
Page 38
In contrast, at the forefront of my mind was a thought of a totally different nature. Try hard as I might, I could not stop thinking about Kaspar’s na**d body pressed to mine, or his firm grasp of me or his demanding, controlling nature that secretly, I sort of liked – although I would never admit it to his face. I could still reignite the perverted thrill that had shocked my system when he had thrown the key from the open doors, leaving me trapped.
My hand was already pushing the door to his room open when my mind caught up. Somehow I thought that not touching Kaspar included not going in his room. Which it probably did, but I had to look; I had to know.
The door shut quietly behind me and I took a deep breath before raising my eyes. The room was unusually light, winter sunlight flooding through the French doors. The dark drapes were thrown back and tethered, the sheets tucked beneath the mattress and the pillows straightened. Gone was the scent of cologne and the air was not tainted by the smell of blood either. Dustsheets covered most of the furniture, blanketing the room in white. The sheets were soft as my bare feet trod on them, cold too, like cotton snow.
Deep in the pit of my stomach, something ached.
I felt tears welling in my ears and back-pedalled, wanting the comfort and safety of my own room. But I stopped as something glistened in the corner of my eye. My steps slowed and I wiped my eyes. There on the mantelpiece, below the picture of Kaspar’s parents, was a necklace.
I glanced towards the door, afraid someone might come bursting through. But all was silent and the shouting voices had faded. So cautiously I took a step forward, and then another, and another. I refused to look at the painting; the intensity of the eyes of the oiled figures was unnerving on a good day, and today was not good.
My feet ventured onto the cold flag of the foot of the fireplace and I stood on my tiptoes so I was level with the mantel. The necklace was coated in a fine layer of dust, tiny flakes clinging to the fine chain on which the pendant hung. It was placed on a piece of thick, heavy paper, which I ignored.
Gently lifting it, I stared in amazement as it caught the light – tiny, tiny lines of emerald engraved into the silver. It was a rose dripping with blood, a small V beneath: the royal coat of arms. In the centre was a minute emerald stone. I let it fall into the palm of my hand, gazing at its beauty. I was no expert, but something so extraordinary and delicate must be worth thousands.
Lifting it again, I gasped. It had fallen open and inside it there were eight miniatures, each enclosed by an equally small frame. A locket.
I instantly recognized the figures inside. It was the King and Queen and each of their children, eldest to youngest, sandwiched in-between. I flicked through the tiny frames, each suspended and strung together by hinges like spiderwebs.
I lifted it up to the light again, mesmerized as it spun on the chain. Behind it I could see the large painting that unnerved me so much, the scarily lifelike figures of Kaspar’s mother and father, the King and Queen, staring down at me. But something caught my eye. Around the Queen’s neck was an identical silver pendant, a jewel set in the centre.
I looked back at the locket in my hand, realizing that what I held belonged to the late Queen.
Lowering it I snatched the paper it had been placed upon, unfolding it and taking a moment to examine the broken royal seal. It was a letter, written in an elegant, curled hand. I quickly scanned the first few lines.
‘Dear sweet Beryl,
First, I must ask how you and Joseph are? It truly has been far too long since we last met …’
I did not need to read any more to know what the rest contained. It was the same letter from the King’s study. Yet here it was, the Queen’s final letter, weighed down by her locket in Kaspar’s room. I admired it; still open, spinning and spinning …
The dream began differently that night. Usually it started almost peacefully, as though joining the mysterious cloaked man was an escape. It probably was – his thoughts seemed to revolve around liberty and being free of whatever restraints he hated so much.
Yet this night, I had to first endure tortured images. Kaspar and the locket I had left in his room swirled in my mind, more faces and voices and sound than actual images. Above it all, I could hear a clock striking twelve, and then nine, and then six, like it worked in reverse. But soon – not soon enough – the scene switched and was replaced with the thoughts of the King’s rogue informant and the familiar forest.
Even thought was an effort and the cloaked figure yearned to enter the trance-like state that was as near to sleep as a vampire could get, but he would not allow himself. He had to return in time for the Ad Infinitum ball. He would not miss it.
His cloak billowed in his wake, the hem trailing in the moist ground. November and its damp air had descended quickly and he knew the humans felt the sudden drop in temperature. Winter is approaching.
Suddenly, he caught the unmistakable smell of a slayer through the dampness and in the blink of an eye they had taken to the trees. Creeping forward, he moved from branch to branch, inching towards the hideous smell, and as they got closer, voices.
‘We want no more excuses, slayer. You can tell your precious Lee that unless he chooses to attack soon, we will have no more to do with him. We’ve waited long enough.’
Now this was an interesting meeting.
‘Lee needs a reason to attack to ensure the Prime Minister’s backing. So far he hasn’t had one.’
‘Perhaps you will change your mind when you have heard us out, slayer.’
The slayer, high-ranking judging by his dress and the array of weapons that hung from his belt, leaned forward into the light from the moon. ‘I very much doubt that.’
The rogues, six of them in total shuffled. One sat further forward than the rest and seemed to be the spokesmen. He continued.
‘Have you heard of the Prophecy of the He**ines?’
The slayer leaned back again. ‘Of course.’
‘And are you familiar with the first verse?’
The slayer simply nodded this time. The cloaked figure, high up in the canopy, sat rigid.
‘And do you believe it?’
The slayer grunted, half-groaning his reply. ‘It’s a load of destiny crap made up by Athenea. Not worth your time or mine.’
The vampire smiled. ‘Then perhaps you should reconsider that too.’
The slayer chuckled. ‘Why should I? I do not buy into fate, and besides, what does this have to do with Lee?’
The rogue stood up. ‘Everything, because the Varns don’t know yet.’ He turned away, scraping at the bark with a long, withered fingernail. The vampires around him shifted uncomfortably, rising too, almost as though ready to flee.
‘Know what?’
‘I thought it wasn’t worth your time, slayer?’
The slayer’s face was contorted with curiosity and he half-rose from his log. ‘Spit it out, vampire, or I’ll ensure my stake meets your chest!’
The rogue chuckled darkly, gouging out a large chunk of bark and tossing it to the floor.
‘They’ve found the Sagean girl of the first verse. The Prophecy is true.’
The vampires began to move away, already swallowed by the darkness, save for their leader.
‘What?’
The rogue stopped, turning slowly, his lifeless skin illuminated by the half-moon.
‘They have found the first Dark He**ine. But after all, you don’t believe it, so don’t trouble yourself. We’ll let Lee know before Ad Infinitum is over.’ He smiled, like the thought amused him, and then turned and ran.
There was total silence in the trees for a full minute, as everything became frozen. Even the birds in their nests did not squawk at such a statement.
So it’s true. Athenea had been right all along.
The cloaked figure leapt from the tree, dropping to the ground as a black blur. He had to get to Varnley. But first, he would feed.
The slayer did not have time to turn or draw his stake before the vampire dove on his back, pulling him to the ground. Fangs sank deep into the flesh of his neck and his expression twisted into one of agony, before it pacified.
Blood seeped from his lips and onto the ground as he tossed the body aside and ran.
The cloaked figure knew if he was swift he might reach the border before the sun rose, perhaps even a little before.
The King has to know. The Prophecy of the He**ines is true. The second verse rang in his mind, carved into every being save for the humans of this dimension. The first had been found. The vampires were next.
FORTY-SEVEN
Violet
Tonight was Ad Infinitum. Tonight, I was the sacrifice.
I wrapped my arms tight around myself. It would not be long now. John stood beside me, hands clasped behind his back as we both leaned against the wall, just waiting. The doors to the entrance hall were thrown wide open, the butlers stood silently beside several footmen dressed in their smartest black and silver uniforms, complete with powdered wigs.
My legs were bare, as were my arms and shoulders. The tattered, fraying white dress hardly provided warmth – it was made from layers of a scratchy, rough material and coarse lace, held up only by thin straps. It fell to just above my knees, with my feet encased in flimsy white ribbon and petite little ballet-like shoes, which made my enormous feet seem to shrink.
My hair fell about my shoulders, left to dry naturally, just as instructed on the card left in my room that morning. It fell in waves, frizzy and unkempt and beginning to form ringlets. I wore no jewellery, no perfume and no make-up.
‘I hate waiting,’ John said. It was a simple enough statement, but it cut through the air like a knife.
‘I hate this.’ I barely muttered the words, but he heard.
‘So do I, and I don’t get bitten like you.’ This man, almost twenty years my senior, was clearly afraid of the family I would wager his love had taught him to fear. Already his loose linen shirt was sticky with sweat and his face was flushed. He wiped his brow, leaning against the marble wall. ‘At least I have a reason for being here. You—’
‘Are being punished? Yeah, I know.’ Again I chuckled awkwardly. ‘But it means I have a chance to see those who still don’t think I’m scum.’ I shrugged my shoulders, eyes focused on the door that would soon open.
‘I’m sorry.’
That I did not expect. I stood up straighter. ‘For what?’
He did not answer straight away as footsteps, echoing, were heard from the corridor that led deeper into the mansion. They faded again.
‘For them treating you like this.’
My fists clenched. ‘I’m used to it.’
‘You shouldn’t have to be.’
I had no answer to that, especially as the doors to the ballroom began to open, sending a surge of nerves through the pit of my stomach. I blinked a few times – the light of a thousand flickering candles lit the massive room – some burning blue, others orange. Black drapes framed the cathedral-like windows, the view through each pane of glass just as dark. The white marble of the walls, flecked with gold was cast in shadow, the tall pillars seeming to stretch into forever above the thousands of vampires – and it was thousands, all still. Perfectly, eerily still. Some were frozen in dance, some with drinks in hand, some poised to descend the stairs of the balcony that we would soon walk.
They all wore the colours and livery of their families, dark colours, mostly; immaculate make-up and smoked eyes, feathers, beads and withering lilies entwined in the hair of the women, swords hung at the h*ps of the men.
Waiters, frozen too, balanced trays carrying flutes of a red liquid that could only be blood, some tiny squares of raw, fleshy meat. Like the butlers, they also wore powdered wigs, stark against the gloom of the room.
But more stunning were the flowers tumbling in chains from the ceiling – roses, black roses with white leaves, strung together and hung from the beams far above the frozen spectacle below. They grew down the pillars and the far walls, some even wrapped around the King’s black throne. Rows of them decorated the tables upon which punch bowls and wine bottles sat, petals strewn between the platters of food. Some were draped from the chandelier and a few had been tied to the stands of the orchestra, so large it occupied most of the far end of the room. They were the only occupants of the room not immobile, the music still flowing from their instruments. A woman clad in red, beautiful beyond comprehension stood at their head, also still.
‘Violet,’ John said, his eyes never leaving the scene in front of us. ‘Only become a vampire for the right reasons. Don’t be swayed.’
The music swelled and drowned whatever else he had to say out, and I refused to answer a statement that felt so oddly honest.
I walked forward, focusing on each and every step, trying not to shake, not wanting the fear and pressure to show. My hands felt the air in front of me, grabbing, clinging and clenching the banister of the small balcony that overlooked the ballroom, my eyes surveying the occupants with what should have been faked fear.
They were all as still as statues, immaculate and elegantly poised. But their torsos were tense, their arms stiff, like a hunter ready to pounce. My eyes darted about the room, looking for a characteristic pierce of emerald eye, or a smirk, my heart frozen as the couples were, but preparing itself to leap.
Not there. Something in my head told my heart to prepare itself for disappointment, and it sunk.
Suddenly, the couple below us began to move, whirling in an elegant waltz, never breaking hold. They circled the couple nearest them who in turn began to move, who circled the next, the hem of her dress brushing the foot of the staircase I would soon descend. Again and again the couples circled, around and around, more and more unfreezing. I watched, stunned, as the room awakened in a great wave, gathering momentum and moving away from us, continually whirling and spinning. It was like a machine coming alive, the cogs turning, faster and faster in time to the music. It did not stop, spreading further and further, sprawling outwards in all directions.
My hand was already pushing the door to his room open when my mind caught up. Somehow I thought that not touching Kaspar included not going in his room. Which it probably did, but I had to look; I had to know.
The door shut quietly behind me and I took a deep breath before raising my eyes. The room was unusually light, winter sunlight flooding through the French doors. The dark drapes were thrown back and tethered, the sheets tucked beneath the mattress and the pillows straightened. Gone was the scent of cologne and the air was not tainted by the smell of blood either. Dustsheets covered most of the furniture, blanketing the room in white. The sheets were soft as my bare feet trod on them, cold too, like cotton snow.
Deep in the pit of my stomach, something ached.
I felt tears welling in my ears and back-pedalled, wanting the comfort and safety of my own room. But I stopped as something glistened in the corner of my eye. My steps slowed and I wiped my eyes. There on the mantelpiece, below the picture of Kaspar’s parents, was a necklace.
I glanced towards the door, afraid someone might come bursting through. But all was silent and the shouting voices had faded. So cautiously I took a step forward, and then another, and another. I refused to look at the painting; the intensity of the eyes of the oiled figures was unnerving on a good day, and today was not good.
My feet ventured onto the cold flag of the foot of the fireplace and I stood on my tiptoes so I was level with the mantel. The necklace was coated in a fine layer of dust, tiny flakes clinging to the fine chain on which the pendant hung. It was placed on a piece of thick, heavy paper, which I ignored.
Gently lifting it, I stared in amazement as it caught the light – tiny, tiny lines of emerald engraved into the silver. It was a rose dripping with blood, a small V beneath: the royal coat of arms. In the centre was a minute emerald stone. I let it fall into the palm of my hand, gazing at its beauty. I was no expert, but something so extraordinary and delicate must be worth thousands.
Lifting it again, I gasped. It had fallen open and inside it there were eight miniatures, each enclosed by an equally small frame. A locket.
I instantly recognized the figures inside. It was the King and Queen and each of their children, eldest to youngest, sandwiched in-between. I flicked through the tiny frames, each suspended and strung together by hinges like spiderwebs.
I lifted it up to the light again, mesmerized as it spun on the chain. Behind it I could see the large painting that unnerved me so much, the scarily lifelike figures of Kaspar’s mother and father, the King and Queen, staring down at me. But something caught my eye. Around the Queen’s neck was an identical silver pendant, a jewel set in the centre.
I looked back at the locket in my hand, realizing that what I held belonged to the late Queen.
Lowering it I snatched the paper it had been placed upon, unfolding it and taking a moment to examine the broken royal seal. It was a letter, written in an elegant, curled hand. I quickly scanned the first few lines.
‘Dear sweet Beryl,
First, I must ask how you and Joseph are? It truly has been far too long since we last met …’
I did not need to read any more to know what the rest contained. It was the same letter from the King’s study. Yet here it was, the Queen’s final letter, weighed down by her locket in Kaspar’s room. I admired it; still open, spinning and spinning …
The dream began differently that night. Usually it started almost peacefully, as though joining the mysterious cloaked man was an escape. It probably was – his thoughts seemed to revolve around liberty and being free of whatever restraints he hated so much.
Yet this night, I had to first endure tortured images. Kaspar and the locket I had left in his room swirled in my mind, more faces and voices and sound than actual images. Above it all, I could hear a clock striking twelve, and then nine, and then six, like it worked in reverse. But soon – not soon enough – the scene switched and was replaced with the thoughts of the King’s rogue informant and the familiar forest.
Even thought was an effort and the cloaked figure yearned to enter the trance-like state that was as near to sleep as a vampire could get, but he would not allow himself. He had to return in time for the Ad Infinitum ball. He would not miss it.
His cloak billowed in his wake, the hem trailing in the moist ground. November and its damp air had descended quickly and he knew the humans felt the sudden drop in temperature. Winter is approaching.
Suddenly, he caught the unmistakable smell of a slayer through the dampness and in the blink of an eye they had taken to the trees. Creeping forward, he moved from branch to branch, inching towards the hideous smell, and as they got closer, voices.
‘We want no more excuses, slayer. You can tell your precious Lee that unless he chooses to attack soon, we will have no more to do with him. We’ve waited long enough.’
Now this was an interesting meeting.
‘Lee needs a reason to attack to ensure the Prime Minister’s backing. So far he hasn’t had one.’
‘Perhaps you will change your mind when you have heard us out, slayer.’
The slayer, high-ranking judging by his dress and the array of weapons that hung from his belt, leaned forward into the light from the moon. ‘I very much doubt that.’
The rogues, six of them in total shuffled. One sat further forward than the rest and seemed to be the spokesmen. He continued.
‘Have you heard of the Prophecy of the He**ines?’
The slayer leaned back again. ‘Of course.’
‘And are you familiar with the first verse?’
The slayer simply nodded this time. The cloaked figure, high up in the canopy, sat rigid.
‘And do you believe it?’
The slayer grunted, half-groaning his reply. ‘It’s a load of destiny crap made up by Athenea. Not worth your time or mine.’
The vampire smiled. ‘Then perhaps you should reconsider that too.’
The slayer chuckled. ‘Why should I? I do not buy into fate, and besides, what does this have to do with Lee?’
The rogue stood up. ‘Everything, because the Varns don’t know yet.’ He turned away, scraping at the bark with a long, withered fingernail. The vampires around him shifted uncomfortably, rising too, almost as though ready to flee.
‘Know what?’
‘I thought it wasn’t worth your time, slayer?’
The slayer’s face was contorted with curiosity and he half-rose from his log. ‘Spit it out, vampire, or I’ll ensure my stake meets your chest!’
The rogue chuckled darkly, gouging out a large chunk of bark and tossing it to the floor.
‘They’ve found the Sagean girl of the first verse. The Prophecy is true.’
The vampires began to move away, already swallowed by the darkness, save for their leader.
‘What?’
The rogue stopped, turning slowly, his lifeless skin illuminated by the half-moon.
‘They have found the first Dark He**ine. But after all, you don’t believe it, so don’t trouble yourself. We’ll let Lee know before Ad Infinitum is over.’ He smiled, like the thought amused him, and then turned and ran.
There was total silence in the trees for a full minute, as everything became frozen. Even the birds in their nests did not squawk at such a statement.
So it’s true. Athenea had been right all along.
The cloaked figure leapt from the tree, dropping to the ground as a black blur. He had to get to Varnley. But first, he would feed.
The slayer did not have time to turn or draw his stake before the vampire dove on his back, pulling him to the ground. Fangs sank deep into the flesh of his neck and his expression twisted into one of agony, before it pacified.
Blood seeped from his lips and onto the ground as he tossed the body aside and ran.
The cloaked figure knew if he was swift he might reach the border before the sun rose, perhaps even a little before.
The King has to know. The Prophecy of the He**ines is true. The second verse rang in his mind, carved into every being save for the humans of this dimension. The first had been found. The vampires were next.
FORTY-SEVEN
Violet
Tonight was Ad Infinitum. Tonight, I was the sacrifice.
I wrapped my arms tight around myself. It would not be long now. John stood beside me, hands clasped behind his back as we both leaned against the wall, just waiting. The doors to the entrance hall were thrown wide open, the butlers stood silently beside several footmen dressed in their smartest black and silver uniforms, complete with powdered wigs.
My legs were bare, as were my arms and shoulders. The tattered, fraying white dress hardly provided warmth – it was made from layers of a scratchy, rough material and coarse lace, held up only by thin straps. It fell to just above my knees, with my feet encased in flimsy white ribbon and petite little ballet-like shoes, which made my enormous feet seem to shrink.
My hair fell about my shoulders, left to dry naturally, just as instructed on the card left in my room that morning. It fell in waves, frizzy and unkempt and beginning to form ringlets. I wore no jewellery, no perfume and no make-up.
‘I hate waiting,’ John said. It was a simple enough statement, but it cut through the air like a knife.
‘I hate this.’ I barely muttered the words, but he heard.
‘So do I, and I don’t get bitten like you.’ This man, almost twenty years my senior, was clearly afraid of the family I would wager his love had taught him to fear. Already his loose linen shirt was sticky with sweat and his face was flushed. He wiped his brow, leaning against the marble wall. ‘At least I have a reason for being here. You—’
‘Are being punished? Yeah, I know.’ Again I chuckled awkwardly. ‘But it means I have a chance to see those who still don’t think I’m scum.’ I shrugged my shoulders, eyes focused on the door that would soon open.
‘I’m sorry.’
That I did not expect. I stood up straighter. ‘For what?’
He did not answer straight away as footsteps, echoing, were heard from the corridor that led deeper into the mansion. They faded again.
‘For them treating you like this.’
My fists clenched. ‘I’m used to it.’
‘You shouldn’t have to be.’
I had no answer to that, especially as the doors to the ballroom began to open, sending a surge of nerves through the pit of my stomach. I blinked a few times – the light of a thousand flickering candles lit the massive room – some burning blue, others orange. Black drapes framed the cathedral-like windows, the view through each pane of glass just as dark. The white marble of the walls, flecked with gold was cast in shadow, the tall pillars seeming to stretch into forever above the thousands of vampires – and it was thousands, all still. Perfectly, eerily still. Some were frozen in dance, some with drinks in hand, some poised to descend the stairs of the balcony that we would soon walk.
They all wore the colours and livery of their families, dark colours, mostly; immaculate make-up and smoked eyes, feathers, beads and withering lilies entwined in the hair of the women, swords hung at the h*ps of the men.
Waiters, frozen too, balanced trays carrying flutes of a red liquid that could only be blood, some tiny squares of raw, fleshy meat. Like the butlers, they also wore powdered wigs, stark against the gloom of the room.
But more stunning were the flowers tumbling in chains from the ceiling – roses, black roses with white leaves, strung together and hung from the beams far above the frozen spectacle below. They grew down the pillars and the far walls, some even wrapped around the King’s black throne. Rows of them decorated the tables upon which punch bowls and wine bottles sat, petals strewn between the platters of food. Some were draped from the chandelier and a few had been tied to the stands of the orchestra, so large it occupied most of the far end of the room. They were the only occupants of the room not immobile, the music still flowing from their instruments. A woman clad in red, beautiful beyond comprehension stood at their head, also still.
‘Violet,’ John said, his eyes never leaving the scene in front of us. ‘Only become a vampire for the right reasons. Don’t be swayed.’
The music swelled and drowned whatever else he had to say out, and I refused to answer a statement that felt so oddly honest.
I walked forward, focusing on each and every step, trying not to shake, not wanting the fear and pressure to show. My hands felt the air in front of me, grabbing, clinging and clenching the banister of the small balcony that overlooked the ballroom, my eyes surveying the occupants with what should have been faked fear.
They were all as still as statues, immaculate and elegantly poised. But their torsos were tense, their arms stiff, like a hunter ready to pounce. My eyes darted about the room, looking for a characteristic pierce of emerald eye, or a smirk, my heart frozen as the couples were, but preparing itself to leap.
Not there. Something in my head told my heart to prepare itself for disappointment, and it sunk.
Suddenly, the couple below us began to move, whirling in an elegant waltz, never breaking hold. They circled the couple nearest them who in turn began to move, who circled the next, the hem of her dress brushing the foot of the staircase I would soon descend. Again and again the couples circled, around and around, more and more unfreezing. I watched, stunned, as the room awakened in a great wave, gathering momentum and moving away from us, continually whirling and spinning. It was like a machine coming alive, the cogs turning, faster and faster in time to the music. It did not stop, spreading further and further, sprawling outwards in all directions.
